


Contingency Plan Zero - Judgment Calls

by frackin_sweet



Category: Chuck (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Reality, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-16
Updated: 2009-05-16
Packaged: 2017-10-22 12:45:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frackin_sweet/pseuds/frackin_sweet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story is an A/R imagining of events following episode 2.20.  It's a continuation of <a href="http://frackin-sweet.livejournal.com/35036.html"> Contingency Plan Zero </a> (where the reader may find helpful details, if this story is confusing).  In this installment, Chuck Bartowski and John Casey are still hiding out in Prague.  They run into some of the local criminal element, have a little bit of disagreement, and then they do some apologizing.  Yeah, that's what you think it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contingency Plan Zero - Judgment Calls

It's both infuriating and excellent to be cooped up in a little second floor flat, in the warm days and cool nights of a Prague springtime. With Chuck.

Infuriating because they're trying to keep a low profile, and that means a bare minimum of little day trips out. Plus, Casey has to spend long periods of time online waiting for Walker, and then working things out with her, planning the execution of the next phase of their plan. Hong Kong has been a sticky situation for her, but at least she's finally disposed of the CIA retrieval team.

And excellent because...well, Casey's trying to concentrate on work right now. He really can't be thinking about how easy it would be just to walk over to the bed, where they've spent more than a little bit of time figuring out new ways to use up their excess energy. On each other.

"What's she saying now?" Chuck asks. He's somehow managed to get ahold of a tennis ball, and he's lying propped against the headboard, playing catch with himself against the wall. _Toss...thud...thwuck. Toss...thud....thwuck._ Casey had initially thought this was better than Chuck trying to read the IM conversation with Walker over his shoulder, but now he's not so sure.

"That you should shut up and let me type."

"She wouldn't say that!"

Casey gives a glare in Chuck's direction, but that particular tactic has lost some of its previous impact in the last couple of days. It's the price of the significant change in their relationship. And one that Casey's happy to pay, but he's going to have to find some way to still intimidate, when he needs it.

"She thinks the last place the CIA believes we'll turn up is Tel Aviv, and that we should consider a rendezvous in Israel."

"I thought you said they caught that guy who was doubling you."

"They did. He's dead."

Chuck stops in mid-throw and his head drops back against the wall. "My fault," he mutters, squeezing the tennis ball.

"Don't." Casey shakes his head at this line of discussion. "Nobody forced him to work with us. He was a mercenary. He knew what he was getting into." It sounds so dark and callous, but it's true. Chuck needs to start getting used to that. He looks down at the screen again to see Walker's request. **[How's Chuck holding up?]**

"She's asking how you're doing. I'm telling her you're okay."

Chuck nods. "Tell her I'm worried about her. I wish she were here."

Casey's fingers still very briefly. No, it's not strange that Chuck should want Sarah there. It shouldn't make him feel that little pang of something, either. He shakes it off. **[Fine. Just a little stir-crazy. Nervous energy.]** he types.

 **[Let me talk to him]**.

Casey considers telling her Chuck's in the shower. He also considers telling her that last night, he had Chuck's dick in his mouth and that he can take care of Chuck's nervous energy without her input.

"What are you smirking about?"

Dammit. Busted. "Get over here, she wants to talk to you."

Chuck is off the bed in a nanosecond. Casey notices that Chuck has adopted a tendency to stay somewhat undressed, in the last couple of days. He's shirtless and the button on his jeans is undone.

Chuck pulls a chair up to the table and Casey nudges the laptop over so Chuck can type. "No names, no locations. Let me see your responses before you send."

"Oh, my God. I'm not an idiot, okay?" Chuck grouses, but he stays close enough that they can both see the screen. He reads the previous few sentences, and then types: **[I'm here.]**

Casey watches the exchange for the next several seconds, long enough to see that Walker is just reassuring Chuck that she's alright, and that things, in general, will be alright. Well, shit, hasn't _he_ done that already? Sure, Sarah Walker is just more reassuring in general, but...still. He supposes he should be glad she's still good-copping, even from afar.

Bored and a little irritated at having to watch them, Casey gets up for a bottle of water before leaning over the back of Chuck's chair, much the same as Chuck had been doing to him earlier.

 **[What did Bryce say?]** he reads as the words appear on the screen. Chuck's a fast typist, but Casey is a bit faster and holds down the backspace key. "I said no names."

Chuck makes a frustrated sound and retypes. Instead of Larkin's name, he uses _You Know Who_.

Casey quickly develops a need to end this conversation. He can fill Chuck in on the important details later. So he pulls up his chair again, but behind Chuck, so that he can lean forward and nose against the tuft of soft, unruly hair at the nape of Chuck's neck. He hears Chuck swallow as he mistypes something.

Casey just smiles. There's no need to keep looking at the screen at this point, because he knows Chuck is probably making less sense now conversationally, and names and places aren't as much of an issue. He moves slightly, down and to the right, to breathe against the side of Chuck's neck. "All you have to do is ask me. I'll tell you what Walker says."

Another swallow. "You leave stuff out." But Chuck tilts his head a bit, offering Casey more access to his neck.

Casey drops a light kiss on a round bruise he left there a couple of days ago. Then tests the sensitivity of the purpled skin with his teeth, again. Chuck makes a little noise, and he lets go without worrying at it. He looks at the screen, and the blinking cursor after Walker's last question. **[Are you still there?]**

"Tell her we have some things to do," he say softly, close enough to Chuck's ear that his lips graze the surface, and Chuck shivers. "We'll talk later."

 **[Vsdru dsud er jsbr yp hp]** Chuck types, twitching when he realizes his fingers were all in the wrong places. "You tell her," he says, his voice a little low and husky. He lets Casey reach around him to end the conversation and close the chat window.

Casey smiles again as he can feel Chuck practically vibrating against him, anticipating what he thinks is coming next. He waits until Chuck stills a bit, and feels him take a deep breath.

"You...you weren't kidding, were you. We have things to do that don't have...aren't..."

Casey indulges himself with one more shoulder-bite, and then peels away from Chuck's bare back and gets up. "Right now I have to meet a guy, about _different_ things. Figure you'd want to get out." He watches Chuck stand up, a little unsteadily. "You'll remind me, when we get back, what things you were talking about."

Chuck gives him a look--Casey's still surprised Chuck _has_ one of those looks, but he does.

"Like you'd forget," Chuck replies, petulantly pulling on a shirt.

Casey is already occupied checking his gun. "I wouldn't," he agrees. "I just like it when you tell me."

***

The drafty stone sanctuary is vast and quiet the way only old churches can be. Flickering candlelight illumes dust motes hanging in the still air. Chuck sits in the back pew, a little uncomfortable, but it's more from Casey leaving to talk with someone in an antechamber than from the fact that he's just not a church person. He stares up at the life-sized crucifix hanging in front. "You'd think they'd like to use a more uplifting image of you," he mumbles. "You know, something with like, kids and puppies, or something." Christ has a long-suffering look of _I know, right?_ on his face.

The Catholic church has always known puppies and children don't exactly provoke a desire to confess one's sins. Chuck looks at his watch and jiggles a leg impatiently. His eye is drawn to the other end of the pew, where a boy in a leather jacket sits, hunched over a handheld game in the universal posture of teenage gamer focus. He has earbuds in to cover the noise of whatever he's playing, and goggles perched atop a mass of blond-streaked hair.

After a few moments, Chuck hears him say something that, from the inflection, can only be curse words, and drop the PSP into his lap. The boy looks up at him, and shrugs; a gesture that says _Fuckin' thing, it's broken._

Chuck hesitates for just a second before sliding across the pew, within arms-length of the boy. "Those things are really temperamental," he says, gesturing at the game. The boy looks quizzically at him, unable, if not unwilling, to comprehend. He holds up the PSP and shrugs again, with a little smile that makes him look far younger; maybe fourteen or so.

"It's probably not broken," Chuck says, shaking his head _no_ as he makes a two-fisted stick-cracking gesture. He's pretty sure the thing has overheated; the PSP has a tiny fan inside that likes to get gummed up with dust. He's seen it before. He holds out his hand, nodding encouragingly. "Can I look at it?"

The boy says something in Czech - Chuck is starting to understand the sound of it, if not the words - and shakes his head as he repeats the cracking motion.

"I'm not gonna break it; I can maybe fix it," Chuck replies. Then he remembers to pull a tiny screwdriver out of his jacket pocket; one Buy More tool that somehow, impossibly, made it's way to Prague on the plane with him. TSA screening is rather frighteningly unreliable, it seems.

This, the boy understands, and hands over the PSP. Chuck has the back of it off in under thirty seconds, and, lacking canned air, blows the dust out of its miniscule circuits. "It gets too hot," he says as he reaffixes the back panel. "Ummm..." he wracks his brain for the Czech word for hot, or overheated, the results of poring over an English-to-Czech dictionary, and wishes he'd simply asked Casey for some of the basics.

The boy stares at the PSP when Chuck hands it back, and then thumbs the button. The little screen immediately comes back on, and the boy breaks into a wide grin. He has lovely teeth, something that indicates he's had an upper-class childhood. Pulling the buds out of his ears, he scooches closer to Chuck and holds out his hand. _"Dékuji. Jmenuji se Mathieu."_

This, Chuck can handle. He smiles back and takes hold of the boy's hand. _"Prosim. Jmenuji se_ Chu...uhh...Daniel. Daniel." He nods as if to emphasize this, even though there is no way Mathieu understood the slip.

Mathieu nods back enthusiastically, and squeezes his hand before letting go of it. He then nudges over still closer to Chuck and starts playing his game, occasionally seeming to ask questions about the finer points of Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII.

Chuck watches and nods and says encouraging things. It totally doesn't matter at this point that they've exceeded the limits of shared language. Chuck gets involved in watching the progress of Zack Fair.

"Yeah, yeah!" Chuck says excitedly, pointing. "You have to help Cloud get outta there. Fast, because Shinra comes after you, like immediately."

 _"Kurva drát!"_ Mathieu replies, and does as he's told.

"Awesome, there, you did it!" Chuck enthuses, holding out a fist. Mathieu blinks, and then bumps it, with another big grin.

"Mathieu, _odcházime právê_ ," says a deep voice, and Chuck looks up, startled.

  
_  
011100010100011  
011011100110011  
101000111001001  
110001010100011  
011101001010010  
Verizon Wireless top 50 corporate accounts Microsoft NBC General Electric US Military Ford Motor Company  
Bingham McCutcheon Walmart Exxon Mobil  
Reznik, Elias; photograph, black file, cybercriminal, alias Damyan Kotias, alias Ales Dhusa, AKA "Cyberchrist"  
Thai container ship Bao Dai cargo pirated electronics, Heckler & Koch G36C's, bodies drained of blood and spread across the deck  
pretty young girls and boys, limbs entwined, doped on heroin,  
metal mattress frames in cinderblock rooms, snuff films on green-tinged digital video  
dogfights and cockfights. Hummers at a gravel road checkpoint  
Reznik cutting off the ear of a teenage boy  
screaming, flickering light, bad circuits, little boy playing video games, woman with her slit throat gaping ear to ear_   


  
His heart pounding, Chuck can't quite get a full breath in as he refocuses on Mathieu, now hanging on the arm of an unsmiling man. Elias Reznik is tall and Dracula-thin. His silver-streaked black hair should soften him, but it doesn't. He has shark's eyes; black, opaque.

Mathieu talks excitedly, indicating his game and pointing to Chuck. Reznik regards Chuck, and turns to look at Casey, who is walking a few paces behind. "Yours?" he asks Casey, pointing to Chuck.

"A friend," Casey replies. Chuck can see by the pointed way Casey doesn't look at him that he is not to add to this conversation.

Elias Reznik looks down at him, and Chuck feels cold. He feels even colder when the man leans down and pats him on the cheek. "Thank you for taking charge of Mathieu for me," he says. "He does not like the waiting."

Reznik and Mathieu exit with the hollow echo of motorcycle boots. At the arched doorway to the church, Mathieu turns and blows Chuck a kiss before they disappear.

Casey waits until they hear the roar of a Ducati outside before he pulls Chuck to his feet. "We're leaving."

"That guy, he's...he's..." Chuck is babbling. In his mind, he can still see Mathieu's dimpled grin.

They're out on the sidewalk before Casey pulls up short. "Dhusa? He's setting up decoy accounts so the CIA will see our financial paper trails from Santiago and Helsinki. He's a freak, but his work is untraceable."

"He's Cyberchrist! Remember that huge Verizon account security breach last year?" Chuck takes hold of Casey's shoulders. "I flashed on that guy so hard it's giving me a migraine. He's Elias Reznik, the most notorious electronic criminal mastermind in Europe! Plus, he's a sadist, and a raging pedophile, and a murderer! He tried to fix the last elections here! He's..."

"He's not our problem right now." Casey is clenching his jaw with the fierceness of one who will tolerate no argument. "Let's go, we've been out in the open long enough." He disengages Chuck's hands from his shoulders and uses one arm to propel them both forward. "Down those stairs, we'll take the Metro back."

Chuck is all the way down the damp stairwell before he can stop Casey's momentum. "Wait, wait! Did you _hear_ me? We have to do something about that guy! He's like...he's _evil_ , and his base of operations is right here in Prague, and we can..."

Casey shoves Chuck through the turnstile onto the platform. "We can _what_ , Bartowski? Call the General, tell her you've flashed on a sadistic raging pedophile who's fixing elections and hacking cellphone accounts? Oh, and by the way, we're in Prague, come and get us?"

"No! That isn't what I meant, I just mean...we can't just let that guy go! You said...freelancing is part of this whole plan you and Sarah have, right? Well, how huge of a collar would Reznik be? We could do this, I _know_ we could..." Chuck can hardly believe he's being bundled onto the subway, with Casey looking at him like he's reverted to early-Intersect-level dislike and annoyance.

"No. We could not. And even if we could, we _would_ not," Casey replies, his mouth close to Chuck's ear as the car lurches forward. "I have two priorities right now. First one, safeguard the Intersect; and second, make the rendezvous with Walker. After that we figure out what we do next."

Chuck stares at him for a full minute as they rumble through tunnels, in and out of the light.

"That kid is dead, John," Chuck says, his shaking voice barely audible over the screech of the rail. "And it's _our_ fault, same as the way the guy in Israel isn't. I don't imagine Mathieu is some mercenary who knows what he signed up for, like gang-rape and torture." Chuck waits for the words to register, and they do, if only with a flare of the nostrils. "On video, of course. Might even turn up somewhere you'd see it..."

"Don't you _fucking dare,_ " Casey's quiet voice goes almost straight into Chuck's brain. "You think I like that that kind of thing happens? You think I like that I can't do anything about it? Because I cannot. Do. Anything. Now."

Chuck is shaking his head, in disbelief, in disappointment, and Casey grabs his chin and holds it in place. "And I hate it, I hate that it comes to this, but would I trade that kid's life, his life and whatever miserable way it's going to end, and _a hundred other kids like him_ , for yours?"

Chuck doesn't answer, his eyes are so wide he can feel them cooling and drying in the close air of the train car.

"Every time, Chuck. Every time." Casey lets go of Chuck's face, and turns away.

Chuck stares out the window the rest of the ride, seeing black motorcycles speeding away over the cobbled streets of the Old City.

***

Casey can feel Chuck's anger the whole way back to their stop, seething at him from across the aisle. There's nothing he can do but accept it, so he does. Chuck doesn't understand this, because whatever unbelievable capacities are now installed in his powerful brain, he's just not wired up to accept collateral damage.

It's a purity Casey wishes Chuck would get to hold on to, and he hates that he has to help take it away, in little bits like this. They walk the few streets back to the cafe below their flat, and instead of going around to the back stairway, Chuck makes for the cafe's entrance.

Casey lets him go, and simply follows a few paces behind. Chuck slumps down at a table near the stage and stares at the small band tuning up, his eyes reflecting something far different from the smiling musicians. The psychic wall he's thrown up is palpable, and even John Casey feels reluctant to approach.

So he takes a seat at another table, one where he can watch Chuck, the doors, and the other patrons easily. The cafe's pretty waitress has bangs that like to fall over her dark eyes, and she wears her tight shirt unbuttoned well beyond food-service propriety. She brings him coffee, and he tells her to put whatever Chuck orders on his tab as well.

Casey knows Chuck's probably not going to order, and it's a pitifully spare attempt at care-taking. Even more pitiful is the way that, as the band plays melancholy folk music, he wants to go sit next to Chuck. Find a way to have contact with him.

Find a way to ask forgiveness for something he isn't sorry for. Find a way to ask Chuck for assurances that _he_ should be the one giving. The applecart is not supposed to be upset this way. Since when does he need Chuck's approval?

The waitress is attentive, and she tends to get into his Chuck-eyeline as she asks him what she can bring him. She's friendly, too, if that's what you call bending over to give him a glimpse of that two-fingerwidth gap between the braless slopes of her breasts. She says her name is Trava, tries out a few phrases in English, and giggles at her own mistakes.

English...apparently he's not being too careful about his accent, and she's noticed. He curses himself for getting sloppy. Chuck and his cloak-of-pissed is too distracting.

And...is Trava here trying to pick him up? Or is she trying to...do something else? What makes her stand so precisely between him and Chuck?

Casey has to peer around her curves at one point to try to watch some guy attempt to sit at Chuck's table. Chuck shrugs, and the guy moves off. Casey's unsure if his heightened awareness is due to the confrontation with Chuck, or if people really seem to be scoping them. A little paranoia is healthy in this line of work.

But not paranoia over _Chuck's feelings_. That also seems unhealthy, and so does this feeling like he needs to talk about things. Chuck, Casey is sure, needs to talk about it. Casey suddenly considers asking Trava for a something other than coffee. A drink will settle his misfiring nerves, and get him over this sudden need to Smooth Things Out.

Who knew the amygdala was a million times more complex and difficult to navigate than any Intersect could _ever_ be?

This time, Casey pushes his chair over so that he can keep one eye on Chuck when the waitress comes back. "Beer. Chodovar. And leave the cap on." Trava nods and bounces away, ponytail swinging.

When she returns with the capped bottle, she says something about being almost done with her shift. And also, isn't he renting the flat upstairs?

Casey had been of the impression that they'd done a far better job keeping a low profile. And he still can't quite determine if she's coming onto him, or trying to get information, so rather than try to figure it out, he sends her off with curt _'ne'_. What's far more interesting is that now someone is attempting to engage Chuck in conversation, at that little side table where the dim wall sconce casts shadowy light across both of their faces. Casey can't tell if Chuck seems interested in this talk, or if he's hoping his lack of Czech will make the man go away.

Halfway through his beer, when it seems that Chuck really is unsuccessfully trying to lose his new acquaintance, Casey decides it's time for them to ditch the cafe. Enough is enough; apparently the low profile should have been a lot lower.

And then the power goes out. It's a moonless night, and the old building doesn't have code-compliant things like emergency lights, apparently. Most of the patrons seem to find this acoustic interlude amusing. Casey does not; he's got that small tactical knife out of his boot and making his way towards Chuck's table in an instant.

Chuck's table is empty. _Goddammit_. So maybe the waitress _was_ trying to keep his attention focused elsewhere, so someone could make a covert grab. She's got to still be nearby, he can smell that weird hippie-cigarettes-and-patchouli blend of hers.

It's a winning bet, she actually bumps into him. He stops her apology with a hand over her mouth, and it's no trouble at all to march her into the cafe's back hallway, where it's pitch dark instead of just dusky. She struggles, because his hand is so big it's blocked her nostrils as well.

He moves his index finger and feels a wet, desperate inhale, before blocking her air again. _No noise, Trava._ She's trying to shake her head, so he very carefully sets the knifepoint just behind her jaw. She goes still except for a thrumming vibration he recognizes as terror.

"Tell me who cut the lights," he instructs in Czech, quiet and deadly.

When he releases her mouth, she gasps and starts babbling her lack of understanding. _"Ne...být příjemný! JÁ don't dovídat se!!!"_

The fear and pleading sound real, and the profound trembling feels more real. There is a tight, thin sound, and Casey realizes he's squeezing this quiet wail right out of her. Something hot and wet rolls down the fingers holding her chin.

There's no way she knows anything, and by now people in the cafe are lighting candles, and complaining about the unreliability of Skupina CEZ, the local utility. He's made a bad call, and wasted precious seconds. Casey pulls the knife away and pushes Trava gently towards the front of the cafe as he heads the opposite direction, out the back service door. It's only marginally encouraging that he doesn't hear screaming as he leaves.

He's got to find Chuck, and he's badly equipped for search-and-rescue, so that necessitates a trip upstairs first. He's also got to alert Walker that he's lost...he can't think the words. Bad. This Is Bad. The stairs protest when he takes them three-at-a-time.

And the door is ajar. He's in the room with his gun out, bullet chambered, safety off, pointed at the figure across the dark room. "Facedown on the floor. _Now._..."

Chuck turns, hands up, holding, inexplicably, the tennis ball. _Never take a tennis ball to a gunfight, Bartowski._ He drops it. "I had the key! It's me! I let myself in! I didn't want anyone to get up here and find stuff..."

Casey kicks the door shut behind him and advances. "You know I thought someone grabbed you, right?"

"I, uh...no. I didn't think of that. You gave me the key before we went to the church, I figured you'd remember."

Long moments pass. Casey just shakes his head _no_. He's out of words.

"I'm sorry," Chuck says. "I thought you'd be up here before I was, and like...kick in the door or something...forceful."

Casey shakes his head again. The hand holding the gun is starting to tingle; he's got to ease down a little. "Don't be sorry. You didn't panic. I did." Bitterest words he's ever had to say.

"Not...not for that," Chuck says. He's looking at Casey's hand, the one still holding the gun, and reaches out. Casey realizes, almost in disbelief, what he's going for, and thumbs the safety back on before Chuck can wrap his fingers carefully around.

Chuck's face is serious as they both stare at the gun in his hand. "I always...you always have to be the one to take responsibility for stuff. I let you, and then I get angry at you for doing it. You put my safety ahead of everything, and I give you shit for it." Chuck puts the gun on the table, and looks down at Casey's hand, the one marked with the invisible tracks of Trava's tears. "I'm done being helpless, and I'm done leaving it all up to you." He looks up, his eyes dark drowning pools. "I promise."

It's like a chasm has opened under his feet, and all Casey can do is hang onto Chuck. Because a promise like that...that's the kind of thing that can really save him. And he doesn't usually think in those terms...people who think they can be saved are compromised. They can't make the decisions that put them beyond salvation forever.

It has never mattered before. It should not matter now. This is just Prague, this is just being caught up, filling time, guarding the asset. Watching over Chuck.

Nobody who's supposed to be so vulnerable should be able to make such a believable promise.

So much of today has been bad - bad business dealings, bad misunderstanding, bad judgment call. It only seems suitable that they should end it with bad timing, stumbling in the midst of clumsy, needy kisses over to the bed. If the Policie CR are already en route, they'll manage a quick getaway somehow. Chuck falls backwards and Casey lands on top of him hard enough that he's pretty sure, this time, they broke the bed - yet another reason to leave quickly, when this is over.

One of his favorite things is Chuck's ability to do things deftly in spite of a complete lack of coordination. Now that he's had a little practice at this, Chuck's got the vital parts undressed already by the time Casey's able to pull back and dig for lube and condoms. It's not ideal, they'll stay partially dressed for the sake of speed and urgency, but Casey plans to very seriously remedy one thing.

This time, he needs to see Chuck's face when he's inside him.

Because they only did this for the first time two days ago, with Chuck on his hands and knees and Casey biting through his own lip rather than lose it watching Chuck push back tentatively onto his cock. And then once Chuck was shaking and twitching too much for comfort, Casey had pushed him flat on the bed and more or less fucked him up against the sheets and pillows. The whole experience was equal parts hot and awkward, but Casey had figured that whatever left Chuck with that loose, easy smile afterward was well-worth the fumbling around and weird moments of second-guessing. Leave it to Chuck to make them _both_ feel like virgins again.

Casey leans down to kiss Chuck again, fingers digging into Chuck's thighs hard as he rubs up against him, bareback - the way he'd prefer to be inside, but he's not going to throw all common sense out the window just yet. He's being selective about it. Plus...they'd figured out almost first thing that the friction fuck is a go-to foreplay move for Chuck. Casey's not going to be removing it from the arsenal just yet, even when he intends to pull out something bigger. A sharp prick against his lip makes him pull back. "What the..."

It's hard to think and make words while Chuck is putting the condom on him. That was the pointy corner of the foil wrapper, still in Chuck's teeth, that had poked him. <>God</i> he loves that little self-satisfied glint Chuck gets when he knows he's taken Casey by surprise.

Chuck turns his head and blows the shred of wrapper to the side. "Didn't I already tell you?" he says. His words are quick, his breath catching on Casey's fingers pushing into him, immediately deep and a fingertip away from too rough.

Casey pauses; a brief second of worry. What has he forgotten? "Tell me what?"

That smile again; smug, fucking sexy. It would look wrong on Chuck if it didn't look so fucking _right_. "That you don't have to do all the work all the time." Chuck's fingers close around Casey's dick and give a little squeeze.

"Oh, you're funny," Casey breathes, even though funny isn't among the words that were in his head. Spectacular was one. _Mine_ was another. "You may need to revise that, because I'm going to be doing most of the work _this_ time." And then he needs to mix it up a little. He lifts up and away, and Chuck lets go of his cock with a disappointed sound. That sound turns into something else entirely when Casey repositions between Chuck's knees and bends down to take Chuck's erection into his mouth.

It's fast, uncareful head. That sort of thing works for Chuck; keeps him right at the edge while not pushing him over, at least not while Casey's got thumb and forefinger clasped around the root of Chuck's dick, and a couple of fingers still working their way inside him. Casey doesn't plan to spend a lot of time on this - if he wanted to he could make it last like torture, but this is means to an end.

Yeah, next time. There will be a next time, and he will make it last, because already Chuck has a hand on the back of his neck and is doing his own inimitable version of dirty talk. It wouldn't sound so good from anyone but him. "Oh...god...you suck like...I...that...I don't have a _word_ for that, _nghh_..."

With that, Casey pulls off, and pulls out, and kneels up between Chuck's thighs again. The look Chuck gives him is half-lust, half-worship, and he almost wishes he'd yanked his t-shirt back behind his head, arms still in it like a harness, on display like when he was twenty-two and playing pickup basketball with the other guys in boot. What the hell...he does it, very deliberately, eyes locked on Chuck's the whole time.

Chuck mouths something that looks a little bit like _oh, fuck_.

"That's a good word," Casey nods, as he lubes up his fingers and pushes two into Chuck's asshole again. Not slack, but not resistant either. He pulls out, adds more of the slick stuff to his latex-sheathed dick, and lines up.

Then he considers a moment, and grabs Chuck's hand. He positions it there, where the broad head of his cock is pressing hard against Chuck's hole. Chuck should get to feel it happen. Casey pushes one of Chuck's knees up towards his chest, and just leans in.

It's amazing how easy it is to slide in when Chuck's so tight. Chuck's fingers don't stop him, they just stay there, feeling Casey's length push inside. And pull out, and sink back in again. Not going to full depth yet, because in this position, Casey's not sure how far he can go. He's not sure Chuck would say no to him, anyhow.

So as much as he wants to bury himself to the hilt in Chuck's ass and cover Chuck's mouth with his own, he still needs to gauge reaction. While he's still got a half-ounce or so of blood in his brain. Besides, watching Chuck's mobile, expressive face as he thrusts in, so slow, and pulls out, is like a separate erotic act in itself. Chuck's bottom lip is swollen from kissing, and from the imprint of his own teeth as he bit down when Casey pushed into him. It's wet from his tongue, because he sticks it out a little when Casey thrusts harder. His eyebrows draw down in concentration, in strain, in a struggle for something. Maybe it's a request he doesn't have the breath to make.

There are two things Casey has learned about Chuck...he should've caught on a long time ago to the way Chuck reacts to a certain tone of voice, and to a mocking, rhetorical question...but it took a couple of afternoons and evenings in this very bed to really bring it home.

Casey props himself up a little higher, changing the angle, but not letting Chuck's tight heat pull him back in right away. He waits, until Chuck's sex-glazed eyes, the irises obliterated by dilated pupils, meet his.

"Yeah?" Casey asks, canting his hips a little to one side, feeling a little clench around his cock at the way this tugs on Chuck's asshole. "You want me to...slow down? You need me to fuck you easy, this time?"

He gets an unequivocal answer to that question as Chuck's hands latch onto his hips and _pull_.

" _Fffuck,_ John. _Hard._."

Casey hasn't given a whole lot of thought to how it feels to give Chuck what he wants, until right now, and he lets Chuck pull him in until his groin settles against Chuck's ass, and he can't go any deeper inside. And he can't say no to Chuck, so he backs up and sinks right back in again, just as deep, and _hard_.

Chuck arches underneath him, and they struggle just for a moment, to reposition. Chuck is mouthing something, and nodding, _yes, yes, that, yes_ , and then they find a rhythm with each other.

And Chuck finds his voice. "Ohh, yeah, like that, _god_ yeah," he pants, words and sounds pushed out with the force of Casey fucking him.

Casey feels Chuck's entire inner landscape clench down around him and thinks he's already got it, he's already making Chuck squirt in that almost-premature way that amazes him every time, but the muscle tension is from Chuck pushing onto his elbows, propping himself up so he can be closer. Casey takes the cue and readjusts so that Chuck's hard dick is trapped between them. It's harder work to fuck in such a way that he knows Chuck's cock is getting some attention, but Casey has always loved this kind of exertion. And with Chuck propped and trying to _watch_ him like that, eyes soft and heavy-lidded, he realizes he likes Chuck's attempt at leering.

They fit so much better this way. All of his sharp edges and Chuck's weird angles get smoothed out with the friction of sex.

It's getting harder to talk, but he does it anyhow. "You like that, Chuck? Watching me fuck you?" Casey pulls up abruptly, on his knees, spread wide so he can thrust at the right angle. So Chuck can see himself taking cock. He wants to see Chuck react to the visual, feeling it while he watches it happen.

And Chuck does, he watches, and even though the room is still dim, and the street outside the window still unlit, Casey can easily imagine the red flush that spreads down Chuck's neck, over his chest, stopping at about the level of his stiff nipples. Casey licks his thumb, and leans forward so he can smear it across one of them. Babble. He wants it. This is not a success unless Chuck runs his mouth like a moron. So, a pinch, and then a pull, before he lets go of the hard little nub.

"Oh, _god_ , shit, you..." Chuck's voice breaks. Casey's not displeased, but it still makes too much sense. He wants vowel sounds, non-human sounds. He wants total surrender. He takes hold of Chuck's cock, feeling the nice curve of it against his fingers. Fits perfectly. He strokes it, dry, as he fucks harder into Chuck again, short little thrusts.

"I wanna give you what you want, Chuck," he growls, leaning down again, fingers still moving on Chuck's length, the other arm starting to shake, finally, from the strain of single support.

 _He does. He **so** does_. He wants to make Chuck come, make him scream, make him...happy. Make things right. Make demands. Make requests.

"Lemme make you come," Casey whispers, his face against Chuck's neck, mouth open, looking for last night's bruises. He hopes Chuck feels the _please_. It's as close as he can get and not shatter into a million pieces.

And Chuck latches on again, pulls Casey down so that they're pressed together, full-body contact, with Chuck's thighs against his flanks. Urging, encouraging. Saying yes. Casey's hands are digging into Chuck's skin, pulling him in, pulling him closer. Getting him closer.

And Casey gives it up first, its both a betrayal by his body, and an acknowledgement that he is _so_ fucked. He's in over his head, impossibly, and just the willing release of control should be enough to make him want to throw Chuck across the room. Instead, silent and shaking, he spurts over and over again, sheathed and sterile but deep inside Chuck's body.

Chuck's body, which is writhing underneath him. The first pulses of orgasm erased Casey's awareness, but now, as he thrusts hard and evenly through it, he feels Chuck convulsing around him. Coming on his cock. The very thing he wanted, seconds after his own, and fuck if he can even remember the last time that's happened to him. Possibly never. Chuck's back is arched with tension, his head back and chin tilted up. Casey takes hold of it, and feels Chuck yield and let him position him. So he can kiss him. So he can feel his own name being said against his lips.

Casey can feel the tension leaving Chuck's body, all spread out and lax now underneath him. In the aftermath of sex, Chuck tends to look like he's just been thrown down a flight of stairs...except for the loose-lipped smile. The look on Chuck's face makes Casey want to touch him, memorize that expression with his fingertips, so he can keep it.

His hand next to Chuck's head on the pillow moves, but then Chuck shifts and stretches a little, and it breaks the moment, as Casey has to reach down and hold onto the condom. He doesn't watch Chuck's face as he pulls out...that sound is enough. It makes him want to tell Chuck to relax, roll him over and take inventory of the places that are probably hurting. They shouldn't have to make a late-night run for it after coming apart in each others' arms like that. Hell, Chuck deserves a pint of Ben & Jerry's and some of those pulpy B-sci-fi movies he likes to recite the lines to. Casey could sprawl there next to him in bed with the laptop and IM with Walker with a guilty-smug expression on his face.

Why. Is he thinking this way? Nevermind. He knows. It's impossible _not_ to want something like that, with Chuck. He'll kick himself for it later, or another time.

Because Casey's practical in the face of everything. Packing up and clearing out, possibly spending the night on the train while they decide where to hole up next, is going to be uncomfortable, but there's no way around that. For now, Chuck can lie there, still gooey-faced and punch-drunk, for a few more minutes. Casey knows he should get up and start doing things, but they've already used up an hour of potential flight time, so a few more minutes is not going to make much difference. He rolls over to dispose of the condom, and Chuck watches with a little less of the quizzical disgust he exhibited the first time Casey did this.

"Call me a romantic, but I look forward to the day when we don't have to carry our DNA out with us," he remarks, as Casey seals the condom into a ziploc and drops it into a bag beside the bed.

Casey's got a snappy retort about the risk of mutant clones all set to go, when he remembers that leaving an empty bottle or a used condom behind is probably the least of their worries. He waits a moment before turning back around to look at Chuck.

It's amazing how Chuck is immediately in tune with the subtle change in attitude. "What is it?" he asks.

Casey makes himself look Chuck in the eye. "I may have made a real miscalculation earlier. Downstairs, when the power went out."

Chuck nods slowly. He shifts around a bit more, obviously checking himself for actual pain, rather than simple discomfort. "That why we have to get out of here so quick?" He rolls up to a half-sitting position with a bit of a grunt. "What happened?"

These things have always been need-to-know, and Chuck used to be the bottom of that particular totem pole, procedurally. But this is different. Casey needs Chuck to know _that_ , as much as he needs to tell him the truth. "I grabbed the waitress, because I thought she'd been acting suspicious. When I saw you were gone, I thought that confirmed it, and that she knew something." Chuck nods; he is still watching, waiting. "I didn't hurt her, but I threatened her."

After a moment, Chuck shrugs. "That's not so bad. You've done as much to _me_. Like you said, it's just a miscalculation." Casey doesn't respond, because Chuck just is obtuse sometimes. Maybe on purpose, just to keep Casey talking.

"There cannot be any more miscalculations," he says simply, and then takes a deep breath. "Because we're going to get Reznik. Not now. After we rendezvous with Walker - it needs to be all of us. And don't..." he holds up a hand at what he thinks is some Chuck-protestation, all stuttery and strangely logical nonsense. "Don't let it be personal. That's not how we operated before, and it's not how we're going to operate now."

"It's because it's what we do," Chuck says quietly. Casey can see his dark eyes shining in the dim starlight through the window.

"And because we can use it," Casey adds.

"Freelancing," Chuck finishes, and suddenly he's off the bed, moving with purpose and only a little bit of a limp.

"That's right." Casey just watches as Chuck re-buttons the shirt he never took totally off and starts searching for his pants. "Sarah's negotiating a potential business deal for us as we speak."

"In Hong Kong?" Chuck locates jeans, and it takes a little bit of negotiation with himself to get them on. He winces, but it's not stopping him. "So what are we waiting for?"

Casey shrugs, but it isn't noncommittal because he can't _not_ smile. "Maybe I like watching you run around half-dressed."

Chuck rolls his eyes and keeps moving. "Don't get used to it, Mr. I-Terrorized-A-Harmless-Waitress. You should send her flowers. Anonymously, of course."

"That's not a bad idea. Maybe I will," Casey nods, actually considering it as he gets up to follow Chuck's impressively motivated example.

Thing is...he _could_ get used to this. It's not romance or afterglow, and it's not ice cream in bed, and it's not safety or security or any kind of human normal.

It's just what they do.

 _\--End_   



End file.
